Loud and Proud
by TheSheepSpeak
Summary: John's sure of his feelings. He's told to make them clear to Sherlock. How will Sherlock react when he notices? If that isn't enough! A murder to be solved and John suddenly disappears?. How is Sherlock to coop with that inconvenience? J/S
1. Chapter 1

**Loud and Proud**

By: TheSheepSpeak

-**Disclaime**r-: BBC Sherlock doesn't belong to me and never will. I do not claim these rights and am not profiting.

Rated: T atm for slight curses and sexual innuendos.

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The answer was clearly yes. After weeks of various scenarios, complications, and questions that refused to reveal their answers; yes I suppose John did have some . . . Stirrings deep deep, way deep, down in his gut. These feelings, no hardly even feelings per say, more along the line of stirrings, yes he liked to think of it as that, may point to him having a certain specific-not-exactly-classified; thing for a certain someone. Oh he could hardly call the man certain, he was mostly uncertain as a matter of fact. Nothing short of ingenious.

It didn't matter! John Watson was sure of it now. He had growing attractions to his flat mate, Sherlock Holmes.

"Do you recall Darwin's thoughts on music John?" Sherlock spoke up after being completely inert and mute the past hour or so as he was manipulating the violin he held and plucked oh so delicately, in his arms with his pale limb forefingers. He looked at John from across their living space, his thin lanky frame draped upon his chair of choice, long ways with his feet dangling over the arm rest. His head hung over to lay on the opposite and his curious sharp eyes searched over John for some sort of recognition to what he asked.

"Does this have to do with the murdered Boots at the Laurion?" John shifted in his own cushioned seat that sat practically adjacent. He looked over the morning paper to meet his gaze. "If so," he looked back to the recently deceased portion of the paper as he planned to silently pay his respects to those he recognized from previous murder investigations, "I don't see how it has to do with Daniel Sastry." For, it very well could have been relevant due to Sherlock always had enigmatic ways.

John spoke of the case they had been in the middle of overseeing just the previous morning. A man working at the Laurion Inn down the road from Camberwell Street, a mister Daniel Sastry, was found dead. He had been a Boots of sorts for the Inn for a total of three days, poor man had years ahead of him and according to Sherlock had planned to marry. John was surprised that his usual obsessive friend, lay thinking of music at a time he normally thought of the case at hand. Must mean he solved it already. That's completely common, as to his secrecy and discretion as if it obvious to everyone he have no need to mention.

Which seemed the case as he drawled out a bored, "Nooo, our bell boy was killed by his mistress, Mrs. Annabelle. The woman we met in the lobby yesterday evening," he closed his eyes and plucked a few strings at random, "I was referring to Darwin on a different notion, not to say he were the magnum opus of his time." His eyes flicked open and he pointed the bow of his instrument in John's direction for emphasis as he added, "which he wasn't."

John felt the need to add he had no idea what his friend spoke of, but he just resulted to rolling his eyes hiding behind his paper again.

"Darwin claims that the power of producing and appreciating music existed among the human race long before the power of speech. Perhaps that is why we are so subtly influenced by it." Sherlock pondered on his statement for a few seconds, looking as if to add on it, before he rose from his chair with such an unexpected paroxysm that John had crunched his paper while looking over at him.

With him standing you could really tell of his features better than him being cramped in a leather chair. To say he was tall and skinny was maybe an exaggeration, John felt his lanky attributes added to the illusion of his height. Such as his long arms and skinny restless legs. Although overall he was intimidating to a full determination of sorts. His strong gaze and almost mechanical and highly logical brain function was obviously laid out within seconds of meeting him, for, he almost on all occasions demonstrated this attribute. In other words a show off.

"Do you plan to inform someone of our murderess?" He asked him, seeing as he looked deep in thought of something suddenly, for he stopped moving every muscle and stood in the middle of the room.

At the question Sherlock flinched, almost looked disturbed, "I texted Lestrade the details concerning, earlier, I don't plan on letting her murder again John." He then set his instrument down on the cluttered table and wrapped his dark tinted night gown around himself further, "I think I'll go out today."

He sounded as if talking to himself, now gazing out the flats second story window into Baker Street. "Anywhere interesting?" John muttered, folding the paper in his hands and grabbing his cup of coffee.

"Hmm, I doubt it."

John stood with his now, almost empty cup, and planned to head to the kitchen when he was intercepted by his friend suddenly, "Need proper clothing I gather," John joked, cracking a smirk. Sherlock stood in front of him, in the entry way to the kitchen, leaning smugly on the frame.

"You as well if you plan on joining me?" He now flicked his blue eyes over him, making John's stomach flip in self-consciousness. He looked down at himself and took a step back as to put a larger distance between the two of them.

He had put on a thicker jumper for the chilly morning, dark grey almost sweater material. A little itchy if not for the extra layer underneath. He pulled down on it, "Suppose so." He cleared his throat looking back at Sherlock in question, "Where to then?"

Sherlock let him pass, now looking at something on the ceiling, "I have no tolerance for another sit in at the flat for takeout, unless you're going out for fresh produce," he eyed John for mere seconds and concluding that wasn't going to happen he continued, "I say we should go out for lunch."

"We go out a lot if you think about it." John ran the water to rinse his cup out.

Sherlock groaned, "I'm at a loss for what to sustain us with then! If you would rather go to the library with me I'm considering it being the highlight of my day."

"Uh, _no_. Last time I accompanied you there you spent an hour in the kids section staring at the children's books, only to spend another two fixing the little play toys." He dried his cup off with a rag, "you remember the one with the colorful shapes you had to cross the table on wires. Don't look at me as if you don't," he laughed despite himself remembering his friend's frustration on the simple thing. "I would like to remind you of your overdue books however."

Sherlock turned to leave for his room, "How do you feel of Italian?" With that John didn't get another word in and smiled as he parted his own way up the stairs to his bedroom for a shower and change of clothes. There usually wasn't a chance on arguing with an uncertain Sherlock Holmes.

Which after a half hour or so filled with a hot shower and a change of clothes, he had headed down back to the main living area to tend to extinguish the fire radiating in the fireplace. This is when he was strangely reminded of something. John was brought back to the stirrings he held dominate and thought back on when he had come to suddenly face them. It had been about a month ago, he thought of this moment often nowadays to be honest, and him and Sherlock Holmes were, to put simply, breaking the law. They had come to the living place of a one, Andrew Ginny and found him un-occupying it at that moment so they had broken in. For, Sherlock is handy with lock picking. He's seen it on a number of instances. This particular search was for a murder weapon, a wrench, and yes that's a common household item, however Sherlock was convinced this particular wrench had one of its prongs missing. The other end or the other side of the clasp, due to a loose bolt.

Anyhow, they couldn't have been prepared for what happened when Andrew came home. So, naturally John was shoved into an old wardrobe dresser that held the man's dressings. So much so that the both of them stuffed inside concluded in them being very close together. Which in turn made John's heart jump around and his palms sweaty and at that very moment with Sherlock shushing him and his face so close in a dark and adrenaline pumping moment, John knew he liked this man as more of a friend. And damn him for it because of all the bloody men in London he involuntarily chose the one who he couldn't hide it from.

Which he has done so very skillfully in the past when liking a roommate, or, at one point a bunk buddy in Afghan. Still, John was a little past worried Sherlock knew. However, his friend was anything but oblivious to feelings and matters such as these. If he did know, John couldn't tell so far and he planned on keeping it that way, along with his these stirrings staying exactly what they were, . . . Just stirrings. John had no chance with this man and he damn well knew it from the start. No one did, that's what made Sherlock Holmes so different. Maybe so alluring.

"Mrs. Hudson is overdue for a visit." Sherlock had muttered beside him, almost startling John out of his embarrassing thoughts. He set the fire stick aside and looked over at him with a tight smile, "It's only been a few hours since we woke."

"Yes," he set his right hand under his chin, "doesn't normally take her past ten to drop in uninvited."

"Oh you can't say you don't enjoy her company once in a while Sherlock," John scolded, "don't be cruel to the woman's kindness. She means well of course."

"Of course." He muttered back under his breath before heading to the kitchen for whatever reason. He now wore a cream colored buttoned shirt underneath his, as we speak being buttoned, black blazer jacket. This matched his normal attire black trousers that were, in John's opinion, supposed for formal wear. Yet, another strange thing about Sherlock is his wardrobe and his need to overdress. Although that iconic wool jacket of his leveled it out regardless.

He swept back into the living space with a hand through his damp hair, having taken a shower himself, and carrying a small brown paper bag rolled tightly and clasped by his other hand. John eyed it as they came to the stairs, "What's that there?"

"A way of greeting." He had said sharply and intended for John to not say more. Which he got the hint and just followed him down the second pair of stairs, where they coincidently ran into their lovely landlady Mrs. Hudson.

"_Oh!_ Boys you seem in a rush of sorts to be somewhere this morning?" She smoothed out her flower patterned dress with a polite greeting smile on her face.

"Good morning, we are just off for a bite," John said as he tucked his arms in his jacket, now wearing a thinner shirt helped get through.

"I have some fresh bread I meant to send up an hour ago, do hope I haven't starved you boys," she plainly joked, for, she wasn't their housekeeper. Bringing bread would have been a lovely surprise.

"Maybe for supper," John mentioned with a smile on his lips, "and maybe a cuppa, for we've run out it seems," he zipped his coat.

Sherlock finished his layers for the slight chill outside of the new season change that was in order soon, and he nodded to Mrs. Hudson as an acknowledgement of sorts before opening the door to rush John along. He did look in a hurry for whatever reason.

"Yes of course," John had said once Mrs. Hudson confirmed she wasn't going to make a habit of keeping warm tea made for their returns, which John figured she wouldn't say no if asked. He never means to imply the old woman's aid them as such with cleaning and cooking, but he loved her like an aunt and couldn't bear not owing her something for it.

They rushed out into the chilled flurry air, it was past Christmas and New Year, and although those were some remarkable events, he was glad they were over. Even if Moriarty still prowled the streets. No, it was still chilly at end of March, having just run the Baskerville case in the beginning of the month, afterwards has been a little boring with smaller cases. He missed that case, it was indeed interesting and although sad, John liked being away from London for a while.

Sherlock hailed a cab quickly and they were snugged inside when John was curious, "We headed to the place near Northunberland Street again?"

"No,"

"Why not the one from before?" John looked out the window to the busy streets of London passing in a whirl.

Sherlock had maneuvered his head to do the same out the opposite window, "No reason." He quipped out secretively.

"Has to do with the bag?" John guessed, now making a conscious effort to look in his direction. Seeing him tighten his grip on it seemed to suggest he was right.

Sherlock didn't answer directly, "And what of last night?"

"Uh, pardon?" John cleared his throat.

"Either a lamp left on most of the night or you were up. Second most likely you're very diligent when it comes to small things as lights on."

"Oh, well. Yes, I was up on the phone with Harry."

"I didn't recall hearing voices; you kept a four hour conversation through texts?" Sherlock mumbled oh so indiscreetly, "Especially to a sister you're not so close to?"

John shifted again, "Yeah, texted her. Uh, why so curious as to what I do at night?"

"Just a conversation starter, oh, look we're here." He didn't hesitate to grab the door handle and not even wait for the cab to be at a complete stop before bounding out. This made John feel obliged to pay the taxi driver, who in turn smiled awkwardly at him as if hearing their former conversation. John then felt a little embarrassed for some reason, for he had been talking to Harry, only he was talking about Sherlock and his, . . . Well yes you know by now.

He practically skid a knee up the cobblestone steps into the small restaurant catching up with his flat mate. Who, as he came to realize, was nowhere when he got through the double doors, which read in fancy script, _'Belle-chi'_. John took the small time to think of that being a French and Latin combination.

Whatever was the reason for inviting him if just to elude him in the end?

Oh yes, he felt this some sort of warning to never pursue the stir in his abdomen, he would more than likely be left behind.

However, his sister Harry had insisted, rather loudly, he go after Sherlock Holmes with every intention of taking him regardless of John's insecurities.

Thing is, he wasn't sure yet of what needed be done, and down the road this flutter would pass as it had done in other occasions. However, this was Sherlock Holmes. This was his newly found best friend.

Shouldn't he deserve to know? _Maybe Harry was right . . .?_

* * *

-TBC-

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If you enjoy this so far please feel free to review. I appreciate every sort of comment~

As for updates-I will let this first chapter sit until I can get a few more done. This is my second fan-fiction I've ever wrote and I've learned to not write a chapter and immediately post it, for I get a little lost on the overall picture. Nothing ridiculous as months before updates, I wouldn't do that to you.

Thanks for reading, please remember to review your thoughts.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

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John found him after asking the man at the counter, who greeted him as a guest. Said he knew Sherlock and that he passed through into the kitchen. John followed suite.

The restaurant was indeed small, maybe as small as the one on Northumberland. Which, he wished had shared the front windows as to see the streets outside; it gave a nice open feel. This Italian restaurant didn't favor openness, with tight booths and small tables scrunched near the center. Not very busy, John guessed they were in tight competition for customers. Who some were now looking at him as he squeezed through the chairs to the back of the restaurant. He gathered he may have an annoyed look on his expression.

The kitchen was small and just as cramped; however he spotted Sherlock quickly due to his mop of curly hair. He was exchanging whatever was in the brown paper bag to what looked like the chef of the place. The chef was short, rounded face and small belly sticking through his white apron. He smiled wide showing blinding white teeth as he shook Sherlock's hand vigorously. John came up upon them as he was saying,

"Thank you, this is so hard to come by, Mr. Holmes I didn't expect you to really get me some," his voice was a little shrill, but it was a tad endearing how excited he was. John stood beside his friend with a smile.

"It was only a matter of the sale day," Sherlock had said back, taking his hand back rather rudely and sighing as he stuffed it in his coat jacket, "It was no problem at all."

"Oh! You are too modest," he smiled. John noticed Sherlock muttering, "_Really not_." And the man continued, "This is a good day for you to sit and eat, yes, oh! This must be your date?" He looked over at John.

Sherlock side glanced him with an eyebrow raised as if he just noticed him, "Hungry John?" He smirked.

John looked between them, "Uh oh yes but, we aren't," he pointed to Sherlock and himself and shook his head, "Date-"

"Only the best table for you and John here, come here, come!" He pulled on Sherlock's jacket and motioned with his hand to follow him back into the sitting area. John's face held surprise and defeat; he couldn't convince these sorts of blokes that him and Sherlock were not, in fact not, dating. He couldn't count how many times people thought they were. It was exhausting just trying to tell them otherwise.

They were relocated to a corner booth that looked the newest, for it had little scratches and the wooden table held a white clean smooth cloth which, of course, had a long thin candle burning in the center. They took a seat across from each other, John facing the front of the place, and menus were dropped in their hands. Sherlock hurried his face in it with a small, "Looks nice enough."

He almost sounded sarcastic, "Yes, thank you," John added, clasping the thin plastic paper, thinking of explaining how the candle was unnecessary and gave the wrong idea, but the warmth radiating was enough to swallow his pride.

"I will be back then, take your time!" He laughed, "On the house of course anything you wish!" He then gave them another look over, even if John was the only one smiling back, Sherlock was still occupied in his menu, and then the chef who didn't give his name, was off back to the kitchen.

John didn't give a look to the menu, he kept his look on Sherlock, or at least the back of the paper in his hands.

_Oh, they had hot cocoa here?_

"Sherlock." He tested the waters. Usually he would spill the beans whenever he was stern enough with him. So, he at least tried,

"He was in need of a rare cheese, I heard his requests through the grape vine." Sherlock answered melodically, "cost me a little more, however I plan on cashing in his well-earned favor someday."

"This is your trick to people owing you then? Buying them rare things?" John scoffed to himself, now seeing it was a really simple gesture, sure, for someone with money ties. "So we didn't come here to eat?"

"Oh no, no, have you seen the items for consumption? I can _feel_ the calories seeping from the former grimy fingers clutching this menu." He then slammed the paper down on the table, blowing hot air from the candle in john's face.

"You're wearing gloves," John smirked, however after seeing his friend so annoyed by the obvious fact made him retract and clear his throat awkwardly, "So we sit here twiddling thumbs?"

The man's elbow rest on the white cloth and he shifted sideways under the table to cross his legs. His slender fingers slipped out of the gloves and rested under his chin. His eyes fixated on John with a sudden look of observation. Oh yes, John knew this look well. He had just become a subject to some sort of deductive experiment and he felt his secrets were plainly written upon his face. Sherlock could deduce most secrets without hardly trying, it had become habit, however once he paid attention you should be wary of every move.

So, naturally John was immensely uncomfortable.

"Uh, well I meant. Are we staying out of politeness or should I, uh, order then?" He fiddled with the sides of the menu and continued to partially unzip his jacket for it had gotten a little warm. He avoided his friends intimidating gaze and his mind kept screaming, 'Don't let him see it! Don't let him know how you feel!'

"You mentioned you were hungry, by all means." He pushed John's selective choices for lunch closer to him, however his eyes didn't falter in the slightest. Never moving from him.

"Right then, yes. Uh, . . . This pasta with the fresh yellow peppers, hmm, sounds like a good start for the evening." John had only picked the first thing he saw. Sherlock noticed. "Sure you won't be eating?"

"I feel a tremor in the winds." Sherlock indirectly answered, "We will be on a case soon."

"Predicting the future now? On what evidence?" John still avoided his gaze and kept it firmly on the menu as if looking it over. He itched to pull it over his face to hide himself completely from that look.

"It's practically been twenty four hours, John. I am puckishly inviting it, therefore it must present itself."

"Why does that sound to me like you're praying for someone to be killed," John frowned, "only to spare you boredom?"

Sherlock narrowed his gaze now that John met it for a few seconds, saying without precisely saying, 'of course I am.' John rolled his eyes and felt somehow slightly more relaxed with his friends ridiculous expectations on reality. If reality is what Sherlock Holmes occupied like the rest of the world. It was un-telling.

About now John flattened a napkin upon his lap and was fiddling, still a little nervous, with it; practically ironing the wrinkles out when their new friend the chef returned.

"You are not eating Mr. Holmes?" He asked while collecting their menus after John told him of the pasta and a cup of tap water to bring him. He thought of a salads but he knew better than to order something that would take longer than twenty minutes to eat at fair pace. Sherlock would most likely get past bored and that's when he gets left in the dust.

"I mean no disrespect." Sherlock had finally ripped his eyes off John and put on one of his sweet fake smiles to flash in his direction, "Nothing for me this time, Randal."

The chef, now named Randal, nodded quickly. His large physiognomy bounced and he uttered a, "Yes yes, right. No disrespect taken," he seemed to be implying he understood there to be a different type of payment for the rare cheese Sherlock provided, to be collected in the future. He scurried off after smiling at John and promising his best food to be served.

Once he was well out of earshot John leaned forward slightly, "What the devil could you want that man to repay you with?"

"Information most likely, I'm confident all sorts of low leveled thieves and sorts of devious minds occupy _Belle-chi." _He now looked across the small amount of customers that lined the back wall, narrowing his eyes as if they were the very scum he spoke of. John followed his gaze with a judgment, but expressed confusion as the only people dining in that direction were two old ladies cutting their sauced noodles.

"Old ladies be the most cynical, I wager." He looked back to see Sherlock's face grave serious before he surprisingly bellowed out,

"Old women be damned!"

At that they both cracked a smile and laughed shamelessly as the two women had no doubtfully heard him and were now silently judging. John laughed rather hard and thanked every part of it for relaxing his posture and panicked mind. Actually it uplifted him, every time he heard his friend laugh as such. Sherlock's laugh was genuine whenever you did come by to hear it. Probably the only part of him he could not layer in that thick mysterious exterior he held onto.

It was probably John's favorite noise.

They were cut off by Randal's return with John's water, saying he would be out with his pasta soon. John just tightened his lip and nodded with a, "Oh yes, thank you." Then once he left he burst into another small fit of giggles. Sherlock just smiled at him and then changed the subject back to the previous, "Heard from our head Detective yet?"

"You're always so impatient, want to know what I think?" John took a sip of his iced water and welcomed it to his dry throat.

Sherlock leaned in on his elbow and pushed the tall candle over slightly as to now remove the only thing between them, "_Always_."

John took another drink after his throat became dry again very quickly once that was said, he felt some heat rise to his cheeks. Any compliment or attention given by his friend resulted as such. "Well," he cleared his throat, "I think the moment you stop looking for it. It will look for you."

Sherlock seemed to ponder this, before smiling again, "Yes, that's insightful John. But, I really don't think I have patients to wait for it to find me." He leaned back, uncrossing his legs and now facing his entire body forward. He created a bridge by his fingers and now set both arms on the tablecloth, resting his chin upon it. His eyes closed and John saw it as a sign of him becoming bored.

"I will keep my phone on nevertheless," he changed the subject, "Do you still wish to visit the library?"

"Hmm?" He was apparently in deep thought, "Oh, yes. I think we could. If nothing more . . . Interesting arises."

John took another sip of water and the ice clanked around, "Somehow I don't doubt it. Hardly such thing as boring day with you, case or not." He laughed slightly.

Now, something dreadful occurred. Dreadful in a sense of curiosity and be damned, John would maybe never know if it came upon on purpose. He felt a tap on his foot, a very light tap that became a bump and there was no question as to what it was. It was so unexpected he let out a small squeak under his breath and his heart practically rose to his throat.

One look at Sherlock said he hadn't known he just did it. His eyes remained closed and expression calm. John breathed unevenly for a second and retracted his feet closer to himself. Sherlock had just bumped his foot with his. Such a small gesture and slight contact made John's nerves dance.

Now he was overcome with the idea his sister was so feverishly pushing upon him last night. She had said that once he was sure of what he wanted he should just go after it. He should pursue it and not take no for an answer. Harry wanted John to make his attraction obvious.

Now came a perfect chance for him to do so.

Oh but,_ what if it an accident? _He couldn't be sure. So he was now thinking to verbally ask him somehow, but his attempt was flourished when Randal came into view and put a plate in front of him. He was now distracted and thinking of his hunger. Randal was gone after an, "Enjoy."

Sherlock had opened his eyes to watch John take his first bite of the pasta that smelled heavily of organic herbs and tomatoes. John hadn't noticed his friends gaze until his attention was brought to him from his peripherals.

Long fingers had wrapped around his cup of water and brought it over to the other side of the table. John stopped mid-chew to watch Sherlock drink from it and set it back down with a soft thud and clank of the ice.

"Could have asked for water if you wanted one." John said after swallowing, his mind now occupied by the thought of the fact that his lips had been on that not a minute before. And, however nimble his friend was on the intimacy of such an act, he might as well consider the unhygienic factor.

"You have a tall glass, you can afford to share." He closed his eyes again and set back in the position he had been in. Apparently still waiting on something more interesting. John wouldn't have stayed here to eat if not the promise of it before they left 221B. He wasn't mentally prepared to scrap something from their bare cupboards.

Now, their lunch adventure consisted of silence and John's fork scraping the small plate everyone in a while. His mind swerving from the foot incident and thinking of other means. Such as what books to get at the library. This kept his attention until he had finished and wiped his mouth gently with the napkin. Sherlock hadn't moved again, after taking yet another drink of his water, and it had been about twenty minutes. He could have most likely been in some self-induced trance. John found him doing that often when surrounded by people in a small area. This made it a nightmare whenever the rare occurrence of him attending the deli down the road. Too many people cramped in a small space and Sherlock practically goes into a coma and refuses to move from the entrance until John was done browsing.

They left after another short visit from Randal, shaking his hand and saying thanks. The duo were now headed for the library that had been a few streets down.

The cobblestone turned to concrete on the sidewalks and they tucked in their coats from the slight chill hitting their faces. John felt satisfied after eating and had a new energy for the day ahead of them. About the time they were coming up on the street intended, John's phone buzzed in his pocket and he stopped to answer.

"Hello~"

"Is he with you?" Lastrade's voice came from the other end of the phone. He sounded rushed and breathing heavy as if he was walking a long distance.

"Sherlock? Yeah, what's going on?"

At the mention of his name, Sherlock stopped abruptly and backed up on his heels to be next to John and press himself in his personal bubble to overhear the conversation. A bright smile on his lips.

"We got one for you again. Too soon in my opinion. We hardly had a break for a moment." There were some voices busy in the background.

"Really? Yes, I'd say too soon, it's hardly been . . . Twenty four hours," he narrowed his eyes at Sherlock and attempted to move away from him with little effort. Failing as his friend pressed on him further.

"I'll have Donovan text you the address, I'm tied up at the moment. Keep him on a short leash until I get there, sorry for such short notice John."

"It's no problem, yes I'll look after it. Thanks for the heads up." He closed the phone and saw that Sherlock was already hailing a cab. He walked to him and shoved his phone back in in his pocket, "Lestrade says to keep you close on this one. He won't be there to moderate."

"Oh my dear John! You were right!" He exclaimed with exultation.

"Hmm? Bout what?"

The cab stopped and Sherlock paused before jumping in with new excitement and a sardonic grin, "Stop looking and it shall appear!"

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Thankyou for reading so far, Don't forget to review-it really helps me continue.

I still have a few more chapters lined up, not too sure one when they will be released. Not to long~


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

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Now the thought of Sherlock predicting the future stumbled across John's thoughts as they made their way into a crime scene. Passing the crowd gathered beside the caution tape and siren lights that lite their way. They didn't run into anyone just yet that they knew, and John wasn't the only one between the two of them hoping Anderson wasn't put in charge of this operation.

A tall duplex building, bricked with red and white, signs of the other residences gathering near the entrance where they were being questioned by fellow officers of Scotland Yard. Sherlock had looked over each of them, only paying a small amount of attention to the ones looking less upset. As, he strolled to the front door with his excitement now dormant under his stolid outer-appearance. He shifted his shoulders and jacket as they both finally ran into a face they recognized.

Donavan stood guard to the building, "Oh? Who says we need you here?" She half sneered. A hand on her hip with a demanding stance. She narrowed her deep eyes at the two of them, frowning when landing on Sherlock's calm expression.

"Must be painful," Sherlock sighed and completely disregarded her, "I wager he's still married by the rushed attire. _Strange_ isn't it, he's having a hard time choosing."

She almost snarled and moved aside so they could have a look. John noted her eyes downcast after Sherlocks back was turned. He had been mentioning the fact that she frequently sees Anderson and spends nights at his house when his wife is away. They were having an affair of sorts, going on for a while now. Maybe she felt upset that he hadn't divorced yet, must be a sore subject between the two. Sherlock obviously knew just how fresh the wound and didn't hesitate to pour verbal salt in.

"Bringing in the freak, just warning you now." She spoke in her talkie.

Nevertheless, Donovan followed behind them as they bounded up the steel stairs to the first floor and then they stopped in front of the table where few people occupied in blue plastic suits. John followed the protocol quickly and slipped one on. Sherlock grabbed gloves and ignored Donovan behind them as she complained of the mud they were tracking inside.

They moved on quickly, continuing to the second floor where the commotion of most people stood around. And when Sherlock stood at the top of the stair, a confrontation both parties dreaded arose.

"Anderson! Good evening." Sherlock stood at the top of the stairs, seeing the man he spoke of drinking out of a plastic cup outside the door of the crime scene. The man looked up from his cup with disgust and rolled his eyes before turning and waving them to, "Just get in and out. Don't speak to me if you can manage."

Sherlock turned on his heel and backed into the room, his eyes landing back on Donavan as she got to the top of the stairs, he pointed to his ring finger and gave a reprimand frown. She retaliated with a scowl, but he had disappeared behind the door.

John saw the ring on Anderson's finger as Sherlock had been pointing out to her, and felt a little pity for the two of them. They were doing something horrible, but Sherlock was really rubbing them the wrong way. He always did however, whatever first impression they laid on Sherlock must have been a tremendous record breaking event to earn so much of his distaste.

He filed into the room to see the damage.

He's never really been accustomed to seeing people dead with the living poking around and gawking about. Today's victim stuck John in a strange way, seeing as he was sprawled upon his own couch in his own living quarters. He had a moment of irresolution before stepping fully inside the crime scene, now near the center of the main room in the small home. Small and very sterile space along with symmetrical wall hangings and bookshelves full of huge hard covers and various binders. John recognized a few just by a glance from many years of studying at medical school. They were standard medical anatomy journals meant for studies at the mandatory freshman classes. So, our Joe here was in the medical career? Somehow that didn't make things better. John looked him over as he strode nearer the shelves to his right.

At his angle, the visage of the victims face showed younger than thirty, clean cut, strong cheek bones and arched nose, his dark brown hair flat upon his face and wet with something smelling sweet and alcoholic, and he wore a black suit that curved over his skinny arms that lay dangled over the cushions. His eyes closed and a very surreal expression over his lips.

Sherlock stood in his vision suddenly, leaning over the poor man and inspecting the liquid substance that wet his head and torso. Sherlock's small micro fine glass came out and he was looking at his shoes now.

A few forensic officers speckled around the small area, keeping distance or maybe rather not noticing Sherlock's intrusion on the scene. They had gathered at the kitchen table, looking over papers and miscellaneous items in bags.

"You're with him?" Came a deep voice behind him. John turned a little startled at the man in a blue sterile suit to match his, standing with ridged shoulders and tan face, his eyes matched his dark hair. "With the consultant?"

"Yeah, that one there," he looked back to see Sherlock lying on the carpet in front of the victim with his hands under the leather couch. John crossed his arms and stood back.

"The victim's name is Andrew Cole, we have a forced entry here behind you," he motioned at the door kicked in and a muddy footprint on the mahogany, "that's all I've been told. Hey, is he okay?" The man asked.

Sherlock was now lying face down, un-moving from the carpet. He looked almost as dead as the man sprawled on the couch. John sighed, "Uh, I suspect so." He shifted his feet and narrowed his eyes at the mud caked on his shoes he could clearly see through the plastic booties.

"I don't mean to be rude, uhm. We got a call from Sally," The man looked pained but said what was on his mind anyhow, "Donavan, that is. She said the, uh. Freak? Was here? That can't be you?"

John smirked, "Oh, no. That's just her under classified nickname she's given him. Sherlock, the one on the floor there." He nodded in his direction.

"Ah, I wondered about that. Oh, Sherlock Holmes? I've heard some people speak of him. You must be John Watson," he suddenly had a brilliant smile. John returned it, shaking his hand briefly, "Yes, that would be me. Trusty sidekick of his—of sorts." He regretted calling himself a sidekick.

"Pleasure to meet you Doctor, I'm Daniel—this being my first forensic mission on this side of London."

They laid eyes back on the main attraction of the room and surprisingly it wasn't the dead gentleman sprawled on the furniture. Sherlock had sprung up from the carpet to see a glass of ice water that sat on the end table near him. He stood there looking at it, cocking is head with curiosity before springing it back to look at the cluster of forensics at the table.

"Hey, you with the clipboard." He almost growled, pointing at one of them, "yes, you with the insomnia and two cats. _No_—don't look at me like that it's your heavy eyes and scratches. . ._Yes I see you over there_ sniffling, your obviously allergic to his pathetic excuse for a replacement social interactions," he narrowed his eyes, "animals are no better than humans, _trust me_." He waved the now exposed man over and John prayed he went along with whatever Sherlock said or wanted because if not John was sure, very sure, Sherlock had more to say about him. He would if given the chance.

The blond forensic with the clipboard downcast his eyes and mumbled something before walking over to Sherlock's side. "Yes?"

"This glass of water," he started, however seeing the man just lean over to look closely at it Sherlock stopped and now had the attention of the entire room, "Ehem? You should be writing this down, get your nose off it."

Now he got a glare from the man as he backed up and grasped his pen with pressure to the paper clipped to the board, he motioned for him to continue with a nod, "What about the ice water then?"

"It's got ice."

"Yes. Yes it does, must I write that down—"

"You had better start preoccupying your time less with porn and stale candies left from Halloween-wrapper sticking from your pocket-before drowning your nights as a newly born alcoholic-you've clearly come back from rehab." He leaned in close, "you've relapsed due to some lonely _pathetic_ depression. Oh, wait you live with your mother. No, Sir I advise you get your life on track and have a good night's sleep while returning to your _nasty habits_ instead of, larding around here wasting my time."

"Oh, bloody hell . . ." John muttered from his corner.

The rest room fell terribly silent. Oh so quiet with Sherlock practically steaming and the blond boy on the tipping point of anger or angst. John watched as he just walked out of the room, muttering before a, "Piss off!" Now leaving Sherlock and the other forensics watching after him.

Sherlock seemed to shrug it off, now making his way into the kitchen to observe more, pushing past the others and they started their conversations back up timidly. Probably about him as the subject now.

"Wow." Daniel said beside him.

"Well." John cleared his throat, "You wouldn't believe it now, but Sherlock Holmes is mostly a placid man, if not for the occasional murder or lack of tobacco." He frowned, "Now I doubt that little incident won't be brought up later by the captain."

"I've heard he's brilliant, not at all a brut."

John looked at him with a raised eyebrow, "No, he just doesn't get boundaries; don't get me wrong he can be a pain in the rear," he laughed, "But brilliant, yes. He always seems to catch these type of people . . . Yes, God awfully brilliant."

Daniel nodded but had his eyes squinted. "Wow, always catching em?"

John came down from complimenting him, hardly hearing Daniels question as he crossed his arms and stood back, waiting for his chance at pulling Sherlock's ear. This looked bad for him as well! Everyone knew they were friends, why couldn't he get Sherlock's temperament under control by now? "I'm going to speak with him, I suppose I will be seeing you again?" He tight smiled and Daniel returned it. Then John walked his way to Sherlock once he was making his way back to the body.

"John. Have you seen the possible head trauma on our victim?" He crowded close to him and they now stood over Andrew, "Now, I believe this was cause of death, take a look."

John kept a stern gaze on his friend as his only response. So, Sherlock looked annoyed and added, "Not everyone works with me, now you see as to why."

"That was very rude what you did."

Sherlock shook his head and stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets, "I did him a favor. A relapsed alcoholic shouldn't be exposed to—"

"No. Not good Sherlock, not good. You recall me telling Lestrade I would keep you under control," he narrowed his eyes and attempted to stay stern and intimidating, "what am I to say now? These people will talk." He lowered his voice.

"Let them talk. We have a dead body here John," he flicked his eyes to the poor man to emphasize strongly a subject change. John frowned further and uncrossed his arms to avert his attention. Of course Sherlock was right, there was a huge sign if head trauma, indicating something smashed over his head. Pieces of glass scattered around the area pointed to it being the container for the sweet alcohol, "Wine?" He asked out loud, now fully smelling the contents.

"Bought by our murderer. No doubt." Sherlock's voice came in his ear, creating a wave if heat wash over John and push him involuntarily over a step, he masked it as if looking at the victim's jacket, "Yes, killed from the hit, but how do you know the murderer bought it?"

"You haven't seen this man's kitchen. He would never buy alcohol. Therefore his murderer brought it in."

"Victim's name is Andrew Cole and Sherlock," he stood up straighter, "there's clear signs of a break in, you think the guy who barged in was carrying the wine? For what? Specifically to _beat him over the head with it?" _John furrowed his brow.

Sherlock mimicked the look for a second before turning smug, "No, he was invited in."

"_Sherlock_." John sighed, "I know your methods and how you are often, uh, correct on these things. That being said, have you seen the busted door?" He pointed to it, advertising the muddy prints. Sherlock didn't even look he just narrowed his eyes as if not taking the time to explain before looking back over to that glass of water. John almost asked but a voice overcame his.

"What are you two doing in here?" Anderson's accusation came from the doorway, "keep away from our team would you?" They looked over at him with annoyance, Sherlock put on a disgusted face, looking as if about to counter, but John sighed, "Look, we're not here much longer I'm sure," he side glanced Sherlock's cold shoulder, "do you know if Lestrade will be in soon?"

Anderson glared at him, his whole face drooping down with his frown, "He's on the first floor. Looking over forensic reports. Now you can leave. Go. Now." He disappeared again quickly.

Sherlock crossed his arms and held an annoyed glance, wincing as John motioned for him to follow back out of the room, "Anything else we need to see here?"

"_No."_

"Anyone you missed to humiliate?" He added, seeing Sherlock crack a smirk before walking along after him. Only to pass him on the stairs. They were at the stand on the first floor and John was taking off his sterile plastic suit and booties as Sherlock talked up a storm to Lestrade a few feet from him. He kept his ears tuned in but didn't hear much of what he didn't know, except the part with the ice water. Sherlock was saying it was something to keep in mind and he assured the chief of its significance to the whole case. He even showed him a picture he had taken on his phone, this made John laugh out loud at his persistence. Glass of ice water seemed something to over look. But, hat was his friends way of doing everything, seeing the small things. Ah yes he says, 'To a great mind, nothing is little,' John almost believed that.

Once he mentioned the fact that the victim had invited his murderer in, Sherlock glanced and looked John over beside him, then decided he was done speaking and was walking back down the stairs. Lestrade boomed after them, "But the door was busted in!"

John stopped with his friend at the bottom of the stairs, avoiding another forensic officer on his way up. Sherlock yelled back, hesitating only briefly, "The footprint is all wrong really look at it!"

Now they were outside the duplex.

John was having trouble keeping up.

"Uh, so did we just solve that one Sherlock?" He asked as he snugged into his own jacket and watching his friend slip his gloves on. He was looking at something on his phone, now tapping the keyboard. His nose buried in it and off the pavement they were feverishly striding down the street, right of the duplex, the police cars, and flashy sirens. John's feet took long strides to keep up with Sherlock's pace. His friend was clearly in a hurry and he was feeling weird talking to the back of his coat.

"We?" You didn't have to see to know he had a teasing smirk.

John huffed and pulled his coat tighter against the wind, "You, did you solve it already? What did I tell you about keeping these things to yourself?" He avoided the cracks of the sidewalk and skipped a small bit to keep up further.

"To not do it." Sherlock flatted out with annoyance. He turned a street corner and his jacket fluttered behind him.

"Well then, spill it. You cannot assume people know what you do, Sherlock we've been over this. Where are you off to?" John saw his stride grow, he now put his phone in his pocket, and John questioned his destination, "Slow down—What could you need in there?"

Sherlock had ducked into a small convenient store the size of a small room, hardly bigger than the apartment Andrew Cole died in. John hurried inside after him, hearing the bell ring when the glass door swung open.

What were they doing here?

Sherlock was seem up at the counter and leaned over to make the woman in charge on the opposite side very uncomfortable. The teenage girl backed up with a fluster, "Oh! Can I help you, uh, sir?"

"You sell wine, yes?" He demanded, narrowing his look on the girl, flicking his eyes to her blond hair for a moment. Whatever reason he wasn't sure? Her face pinked and she nodded, "of course, in—in the back . . ." She breathed in sharply as he softened his look and let out a very smooth, "I'm looking for someone who bought some wine here, uh, I think he was here earlier today. . .Know who I'm speaking of?"

Now John was trying hard to get that voice out of his mind, let alone the tinge of jealousy that pinged in his stomach, seeing the girl melting. Sherlock shook her head, "No, I erm, I wasn't working earlier. Wasn't my shift." She smiled.

He smiled back, "Oh, yes I see now. That's too bad." He then turned on his heel and his smile dropped instantly. He walked with new purpose to the back of the store where she had pointed. John scurried after him to the back of the small store, "Andrew Cole was killed by wine from here? How can you be sure?"

"Take a look at this," he pushed his arm up so John could see the screen of his phone over his shoulder. A picture on the screen was of the coffee table that was beside the couch at the crime scene. He had taken a picture facing directly down at the table surface where the glass of water and a ringed water circle were the only things seen. The water ring was oval and held a weird indent through the center, as if the sweat of whatever had been there seeped down between some sorts of crack in the bottle.

"The bottle was set down beside the glass? Before it was used as a weapon?" John didn't get another look before Sherlock proceeded to open the fridges to look closely at each bottle. John spoke again, "Sherlock, why this store?"

"Be a good _sidekick_ Watson, check that side." He pointed without looking in his direction to the other end, where numerous amounts of other bottles full of wine and rum and all sorts stood on the shelf. John felt a little hurt by that, but knew better than to think much of it. Sherlock had heard his conversation with Daniel earlier, of course he had. He took in a breath and set to helping. "How am I to tell what wine bottle from a sweat ring on a table?"

Sherlock took a small moment before responding, "I know this bottles ring, and specifically I know it's only sold at certain stores. Nothing fancy it's the opposite, so common, no one sells it."

"Except when in small corner stores." John nodded.

"It was once offered to me at a college party, I recall the strange ring it left when spending countless hours near the table they sat on."

"Everything is so convenient with you, huh? Wait—" John looked over at him as he continued to sort through them, "_You went to parties_?"

"No time for flashbacks John! It's a clear bottle, skinny near the cap."

In the end, about ten minutes up to their elbows in bottles. John could now probably tell what brand he held blindfolded by how many he had picked up and read. Sherlock had found five or six with similar bottoms, holding them in the air in triumph.

The cashier lady had poked her head over to ask John what they were doing, only to not listen to him when he spoke. She bypassed his answer to ask if they were a couple. It must have looked so due to all the wine and Sherlock's new excitement.

Sherlock came over to them as John told her no. He regretted it due to the girls sudden interest in his flat mate and how that made him feel. Quite lousy. That and as he headed out and Sherlock was paying for the bottles, she flirted with him timidly and of course he didn't seem to notice. At all. In fact looked to not notice her in the least bit.

"Why the long face John? We are most definitely heading in the right direction." His reprimand voice came as a break through John's thoughts as they walked out of the small shop and the bell rang behind them, he added, "Text Lestrade tell him to check the security tapes on that store, find out who worked this morning."

John flipped his phone open and watched as Sherlock stood near the end of the street and hailed a cab, "Shouldn't we just run over there and tell one of em? It's not too far, what do we need a cab for?" He text-ed him nonetheless. Sherlock didn't answer; he just clung to his bottles of wine and kept a firm line with his lips before the car pulled up.

They bustled in as John hit send.

* * *

Hi guys-Sorry for any grammatical errors on my part, my Ipad has been screwy. NEVERTHELESS- I must thank-

(Fan) For the lovely review-First one Thank you!

These reviews help me continue to write, let's me know your reading and i do love feedback. Don't forget- Love you guys~~

Next chapter coming soon.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

* * *

"No, I'm fine. I think it's just—"

**_SMASH!_**

"Uh, yeah. That was him again, no no. I said I'm okay." John reassured, "I'm not sure what he's up to but, . . . ." He clutched the phone in his hand, "I'm thinking it's just an experiment as always Harry, there's no need to worry."

His sister persisted on John checking on his flat mate who was occupying the living space down the stairs. Sherlock sounds to be smashing glass and John knew better than to think he couldn't handle whatever he took on. Last time he intervened he ended up with a bruised wrist and seven stitches in his finger.

**_SMASH!_**

Sure, where he sat on his bed speaking to his sister, it sounded bad. But, he was trying to convince her to stay out of his affairs. Especially dealing with Sherlock. Ever sense he asked her advice on him, she won't leave him alone until he called her and had to say in his own tone to sod off. So far she wasn't backing off and had only pressed further on him coming out to his friend. Talking out loud about it was giving him a terrible headache and case of the butterflies. "Keep out of it Harry please. I don't need you to-I know I know."

She told him of how he had to tell Sherlock or else he probably won't ever know and it sounded like he needed a push. "I can't just do that Harry, you don't know him like I do, I'm pretty sure he's not, well. . . Into guys." He cringed at himself.

She laughed and reminded him of how no one he asked knew of Sherlock's sexuality and no one said it would ruin their friendship forever. That life is full of risks you should take. "If I try, at least a little. Okay okay! Yes. I'm saying yes-fine. I could-"

**_SMASH!_**

"Try. . . I could _try_." He huffed.

After hanging up he took a short moment to recollect his thoughts before standing. Thinking this through seemed too hard, maybe he should just do it. So, he bounded down the steps with new strides and hoped he could somehow pull this off. Whatever it was.

**_SMASH!_** "Whoa! _Christ!"_ His nerves were shot as glass hurtled at his head the moment he stepped into the living space, he ducked and got a small flash from Afghan that he shook off, "Dammit! What the hell Sherlock!" He continued to duck before tentatively entering through the kitchen.

Sherlock sat on the moved couch that was now clear against the window to keep the shot wall bare enough for hurtling bottles of wine at it. Sitting adjacent he held the other few bottles collected at his feet, he glanced over slightly with his cool unreadable eyes, acknowledged John and only stared blankly, his hand curled around his next bottle, laid lazily over his propped up knee. "Misjudged your height John,"

John took a second to stop staring, "What? I'm taller than you thought? You could have taken my head off," he crossed his arms from across the kitchen.

"No. Shorter." He mocked.

John frowned, "Stop with all that racket, whatever are you doing here?" He lightened up when Sherlock smiled back at him dimly, John looked over at the wall that had four bottles shattered and stained on. "Oh what a mess."

"Mrs. Hudson has already made it clear I'm to clean my own _mess_ on this one." Sherlock turned back to examine his handy work on the wall, frowning a little and looking to aim the next bottle at its target. "No need to remind me."

**_SMASH!_**

Clear liquid dripped down the happy wall, oozing down to meet plastic wrap Sherlock had laid over the wood. It reeked of grape and strong liqueur, the different brands blending together to be strong enough for burning John's nose. It would smell like this for weeks, no more clients coming inside or else they wouldn't be taken a day seriously.

John made his way over to sit with him on the couch, instinctively choosing the other side of the cousins. He mentally slapped himself for not taking that step and being closer. He hadn't thought of it and now seemed too late. "Happen to come by Andrew's papers on your way out by chance? Shouldn't we read those?"

"I know what our next step is. Allow me to finish this one."

John breathed in and scooted in closer, keeping an eye on Sherlock's expression to see any acknowledgement. There was none as his friend merely kept watch of the wall. So he got closer still, "Andrew was practicing medicine?"

"_Clearly_." Sherlock picked up another bottle and looked it over before aiming. His nose scrunched and eyes narrowed at the wall, John found it rather . . . Silly. "Well, then you say our next step is what?"

**_SMASH!_**

John cringed when it made contact, swearing under his breath from the loud noise. Sherlock rested his chin on his propped knee, replacing his elbow, he let out a puff of air, his lower lip pouting out, "Lestrade will call. He must of noticed the mud by now."

"Mud on the door? From where it was kicked in?" John scooted oh so slightly closer before Sherlock answered dryly with, "You saw the state of our feet after walking through that street John. Our feet were covered in mud." He flicked his eyes down to loosely grab the last bottle, "the foot print on the door had dried flakey mud, already dry from being in the house. From being invited in prior. Andrew knew our killer." He read the label and twiddled it between his nimble fingers.

John watched entranced, "Ah, brilliant. Yes. That seems obvious now-oh, uh, now."

At _brilliant_ Sherlock had glued his grey eyes on his with a smile hidden in them causing John to get flustered. However the brown curly headed genius sighed out, "Easy deduction. Hardly anything close to—"

"Oh I mean it, every time I say it," John was now closer than a foot to his friend, his stomach creating flutters as he continued coquettishly, "You're fantastic, no doubt, _past_ brilliant."

Right then Sherlock's whole frame stiffened and his eyes grew a tad wide. The change was subtle to a point; however, you would have to know Sherlock's normal expression to see the difference. His lip curved in and John had a heat flash. Sherlock looked at the distance between them and quickly looked back, now seeming very uncomfortable, "Uhh—"

They both jumped a mile high at the noise the last bottle made as it had hit the floor. Slipped out of Sherlock's grasp strangely and John didn't have time to recollect the situation before his flat mate had doubled over to grasp it and with wide eyes set it up on the coffee table. He didn't look in John's direction in the next second he took to abruptly standing and making his way to the window in a sort of fluster. His hands straightening his jacket over and over for a few moments.

As always, changing the subject, "Got texted the details, uh," he cleared his throat getting John out of his daze, "on the victim." He kept looking past the window to the streets, before a sudden turn of his heel. He straightened his jacket and looked ahead.

John stood slowly with his hand scraping his knee, "Erm," he found a little lost for words, trying to study Sherlock's blank look, "Good, uh, good then. Real good. What is the next move—Hey where are you off to?"

Sherlock was seen fluttering out past the door, not another look, hardly even a glance in John's direction. He whizzed past him so fast John stood in the alcohol fumed room with his mouth gaped open. It stayed open until the door was heard shutting a moment later.

He slumped back to the sofa a few minutes later of only silence, practically glued to it now. Looking down at the last wine bottle. Was that the reaction he was supposed to get? Was it good or bad? He did look flattered at first, if not surprised by his sudden change in mood. Then looked immensely uncomfortable with it all and John was feeling doubt sure. But.

There was also this sort of high feeling, a sort of lifting of spirits that accompanied fluttery stomachs and clammy palms. That was nerve wracking and scary as hell! John found he sort of loved the thrill.

Oh but he hated this reaction. Of all that crossed his mind, he didn't think Sherlock would just, . . . Run away.

Maybe he shouldn't do this?

**/X\\**

Now, after that. John laid off for a few days. Which John found less and less of Sherlock in the means. Which made his new intentions easier. He hardly saw his flat mate these past three days. However Lestrade would text him now and again saying they kept having different leads to Andrew's murder.

John even tried to get up earlier than his normal hour to try and catch Sherlock before he left, but he had to give him credit for always giving him the slip at all hours. The only times they saw each other were random times and very briefly not to mention immensely awkward. They consisted of eye contact lasting longer than ten seconds, and then Sherlock would downcast his gaze and practically sprint out of the room. Now, he wasn't sure if they were fighting? What had even happened between them was unclear. It's not like John came on to him that strong, it was just one bloody compliment.

John had the clinic to go to, so things weren't as boring as sitting around all day; however Sherlock always found a way into his mind to distract him. He also spend some days alone in his room avoiding his sisters calls and writing his blog, mostly for no reason, and he'd merely delete more than he posted. It got a little tedious. So, three days after the awkward encounter, John finally found his voice when he bounded downstairs for a drink.

There Sherlock was already in the damn kitchen and now, he felt the atmosphere shift dramatically as he entered. Sherlock's back to him, almost looking as if he didn't hear him come in. He was hustled over he stove, a pan on top, and what smelled of eggs. It was the middle of the day and Sherlock was cooking? This was strange. Of course his flat mate knew he had entered, yet still avoided looking his direction, so John grabbed his mug from the door and while filling it with water, he tried to peek a look.

"Eggs then?" His voice was almost drowned out by the running water.

"Hm," Sherlock spoke to him for the first time in the three days, his voice sounding as enticing as ever and John pried, "Oh, good that you're eating. Uh, you need a holder?"

Sherlock's stiff posture seemed to sooth a tad, but he still didn't look his way while he pushed the cooking eggs around the pan slowly. His answer sounded like a chore, "I said I don't eat on cases, I meant it."

"Uh?" John tightened his grip on the mug he held, "Whatever are the eggs for then-oh, uh, here." He got out a small red pot holder from the drawer nearest him and forked it over, "Use this before you hurt yourself."

"I can manage." Sherlock avoided the first question, however after his short answer he added a little less harshly, "Thank you John."

He set it on the counter, for surely Sherlock would need it. He smiled a little, feeling better about their current situation, "So, you have any ideas on Andrew's case?" He took a sip of his water and leaned on the sink's edge, "Solve it yet?" He dared tease.

This finally, after the entire encounter, caused Sherlock to flick his eyes in his direction; however he didn't move his posture. He seemed to cringe at the question, "_No,_ I have not."

John took a moment to look into his eyes, trying an innocent smile to lighten the situation further. He was surprised when Sherlock had flashed one back for a moment, and then turned his gaze back to his cooking.

John felt better than he had ever felt in those few days, knowing maybe he didn't screw up like he thought he did, "Those look about scrambled, you want some orange juice, I could possibly run to the store for some things."

His friend shrugged, "Would _you_ want orange juice?"

"Uh, for breakfast foods, yes. I suppose I do." He answered, taking a sip of his water, he contemplated taking a seat at the table. He watched him examine his cooking work, leaning over it before poking his fork through. He picked a piece and straightened, looking as if to taste it, however John was taken back as the fork was shoved in front of him instead.

"Taste." Sherlock commanded.

John's stomach did the flips and he really didn't feel comfortable just eating off his outstretched utensil. So, he took the fork for himself and Sherlock watched him eat the tiny piece.

It tasted fine and all, but the way he was looking at him made him feel like spitting it out, "Good, uhm. You didn't do anything weird to it?" He tried to sound like he was joking, but everyone could have told he was dead serious. He handed him the fork back instinctively.

Sherlock took it, his eyebrows rose in question, "If you count an over amount of pepper than you usually prefer, than, yes."

"You know I prefer extra pepper on my eggs?" He turned his head sideways in surprise, then he smiled as Sherlock mimicked him.

"Of course, hard to miss whenever you make them; the pepper stinks up the kitchen."

"I don't put that much on," he laughed, his elbow came down to rest on the counter and he set his mug down. Now thinking of that orange juice. He saw Sherlock turn back to the eggs, he set the fork down and then reached for a small white plate they kept stacked near the stove. He proceeded to turn the heat off and his hand came down on the-!"Sherlock! The holder, use the holder, _stop."_ John came up beside him and shoved the red fabric square at him, "What's the matter with you?" He laughed.

Sherlock just took the thing and used it as if for the first time, before gracefully scrapping the eggs onto the pate, "Take a seat John, you should eat at the table."

"Me?"

The plate of food was served over to him, Sherlock's expression held right at a slight grin. His eyes closed for a mere second to scrunch up. John felt a little lost, but took it nonetheless. "Thanks, uh. What's this for?"

"You haven't eaten today." Was the only answer he got before his friend made his way over to the two seat table and took one, his elbows rested down and he stippled his fingers over his chin. His eyes heavy on John.

Who now felt obligated to sit. Now feeling his stomach grumble and eggs sounded fantastic he had to admit. He took a seat after clasping his mug. As he sat down the chair squeaked and he poked through the eggs before taking an eager bite.

"Did you want that juice?" Sherlock spoke up. "I'll be out anyhow."

"_You?_ Go to the store?" John swallowed harder than he meant and coughed, "No, no don't it's fine. Uh, where you off to?"

"Over see some interrogations," he finally looked disinterested and fiddled with the loose papers on the table surface.

The room fell into silence again. Now John was preoccupied with his thoughts on how surprised he felt on Sherlock's sudden gesture. He never really made him food unless testing a close to harmless drug or he made too much for himself and offered so it wouldn't turn wasteful. John was really unsure about the drug thing, usually by now Sherlock said something or he could tell from his close analyzing. Looking over the table at him now, Sherlock looked anything but interested. He had his phone out and seemed completely invested into it. So, John went about finishing his eggs, keeping that small thought that it could very well be drugged in the back of his mind. He didn't feel any different. Counteracting most assumptions, his flat mate wasn't keen on having John being test subject due to the lack of cooperation on John's part. If he's going to drug anyone, if for any reason, he drugged himself. He usually had better results that way.

Now, John finished and stood to set his plate in the sink, finishing his drink he was now at a loss of what to say. So he blurted, "Can I join?"

Sherlock looked up from his phone with an odd look, "Join me?" He asked slowly as if sensing John's distress at a conversation "Thought you were going to the store."

"I don't really plan to, no." He turned to the sink again and turned to add the pan on the stove. "If you don't need me to, I don't, uh, have to."

"No. Come." The chair scraped on the floor and from John's peripherals he was seen standing and heading into the living space.

"Right now?" John turned the running water off and grabbed a towel to whip his hands, "You're leaving now?" He watched Sherlock stuff his phone in his pocket and tuck his silk purple shirt further in his belt. His stride quickened as he fluttered into his room and he emerged buttoning his black blazer. Smart considering it would still be a tad cold outside layers were a good idea. John may need his other jumper.

"Hey, whoa. Hold it, why are you rushing around?" He threw the towel back into the kitchen as he cut Sherlock off just before the stairs. His arm came out and had come into contact with his chest in the process.

Sherlock looked down at the contact with his eyebrows furrowed and his gaze followed John's arm as it retracted quickly, "No time like the present John." He answered.

"Hold up a second, can I ask you, uh." He stepped back a bit, "that cooking thing you did there," his eyes went to the kitchen on his left, "are we okay? I mean, over all, _this_." He waved his arms around between them.

"What's _this_?" He mimicked him.

He gave him a long look before slumping his shoulders and pinching the bridge of his nose, "Uh, look. Whatever happened a few days ago, are we over it?" He looked back up to see Sherlock looking back.

"_Are we_?" He asked back, "_Over what exactly_?"

John huffed, "I will take this as a yes. Right?" He squinted his eyes at him to see a change that said otherwise.

Sherlock moved past him, "Don't look too far into it John, you needed something to eat now or we would have to stop somewhere along the way." He straightened his jacket and John followed, he wasn't done talking as he slipped his long coat on, "As for _this_?" He moved his arms again, "I assure you I have no idea what that is," Sherlock almost laughed as if it were an inside joke.

John was now thoroughly confused as he put his own jacket on, "So you made me eggs because you knew I would want to go with you to—"

"Scotland Yard, yes. We have suspects to oversee. You need to get out of the flat John, your starting to hermit." He opened the door and stepped into the chill as he tightened his scarf.

"Oh, right." John muttered, working through what he could as he followed shortly. Where did they stand exactly?

* * *

Hi-

Thank you for the review Lily Hatch, It really encouraged me :3 thanks~

Don't forget about this case~

^w^ Okay, Remember to review if you have time, wanna hear your thoughts! Love you guys~


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

* * *

Now, Sherlock had almost seemed back to normal, as normal for him at least. John could swear nothing happened between them, but during this run over to the hospital. Things got weird. Like, he wouldn't speak to him unless John started the conversation and he seemed to not want him here. Yet, he predicted he would come. So, he was very confused.

Lestrade noticed and pulled John aside halfway into the first conversation. He let Sherlock into the other room to see the first suspect and used it as an excuse to talk to John alone behind the mirror in the next room. John shifted his feet and watched through the one way glass at the woman they had sitting across Sherlock. His attention was averted as Lestrade spoke up after clearing his throat, "So, you two doing okay?"

"Hm?" John looked over at him, "Yeah why?"

"He normally has you in there with him," he motioned to the room, "Insists actually." John had looked back to see the blond young girl waving her arms around in the interrogation room as she explained something he wasn't listening to. He caught a few snippets, "My husband wasn't right in the head. He was always so damn paranoid and obsessed with his work. He's a _surgeon_, shouldn't have been acting as such." She had tears swelling in her eyes, "I planned to leave him you know?"

John looked back to the captain, "Can you tell there's something wrong cause I'm not sure to be honest."

Lestrade beside him, sighed, "Yeah but I'm sure whatever it is, you'll work it out. Lord knows you better if we are to continue this," he paused to laugh, "Whatever this is."

"Yeah, suppose so." John muttered softly, adjusting his coat jacket and feeling a tad chilly in the concrete room. The DI mimicked him as if on instinct before saying again. "You know?" He soothed out, seeming confused on something, "Sherlock was in here yesterday, to witness another suspect. Uh, janitor of the hospital Andrew Cole worked at." He turned to John to say, "he didn't get anything out of him. He was only in there for two seconds. I swear he was upset over something. So I wondered if you guys were okay, is all."

John reassured him, "Yeah I think we are fine," he crossed his arms and set back on his heels to pay attention to the interrogation. These thoughts heavy on him about how even Lestrade could tell when Sherlock was upset. Was upset the right word for it? Hopefully Sherlock wasn't secretly mad over something, or uh . . . The incident.

Sherlock had kept a soothing voice, "I'd assume it was his alcoholic problem. He had generous amounts in his living space." He shook his head as if upset about it. That didn't compare to the woman's face, "Alcoholic! God no. He never touched the stuff."

"He didn't have to lie about evidence," Lestrade had commented before Sherlock continued, "Why leave him? _Certainly wasn't his slight obsession for flower decor_." He whispered the last part thickly with sarcasm.

"No, uh. Look, it told you he was a nut about his work. I hardly ever saw him. You know, I even thought he was cheating on me how often he stayed late at the hospital." She laughed a little too loud.

Sherlock turned to look at the double mirror, knowing John and Lestrade were on the other side, he mouthed, '_Motive,_' Then went back to the woman, "Mrs. Cole. Where were you three days ago, around one and two in the evening?"

"Uh, oh. Yes. Out shopping, I had headed to the deli not long after-"

"Pedicure yes yes, what about after the deli? You went home? _Alone_ I guess?"

"Well yes. Andrew had stayed at the apartment I was living with my mother. She wasn't home when I was. She was out with her girlfriends," she laughed again, "We had a fight the night before." Her eyes shifted around, "I know his is a bad explanation! I'm innocent I would never hurt him!"

He put his hands out to calm her, "Raising your voice doesn't help you. Can you take those glasses off you don't need them."

"Excuse me?" She touched at her bright pink rimmed glasses.

Sherlock persisted,"You don't need glasses, the frames are not prescription and honestly they don't compliment your face how you assume they do. You keep adjusting them."

She frowned but took them off, "If your suggesting that I buy fake things to look different on, on purpose! Well I-"

"Do you smoke?" She went to answer him but he cut her off again, "Of course you do, may I see one?"

John hit the glass softly to get his attention now wishing he were in there to hit him instead of it. Sherlock looked back with an innocent face, as if they didn't hear that at all.

"Oh, that's my cue." Lestrade headed for the door with the same intention. Seeing as Sherlock was now trying to haggle a cigarette from the lady. He hit John playfully on the shoulder before leaving, "Hey, he seems better now that your here, huh?" He cracked a smile but turned to quickly shift into the next room.

They then switched spots and Lestrade was asking her minor questions about her career and family.

As for Sherlock, the moment he walked in he was insisting they walk out. Saying he wished that went better and she was clearly hiding something. John followed behind him as they weaved through the office and he was handed a few files from Donavan as he passed her desk saying the boss insisted strongly they have it. He tucked it close and shuffled after his flat mate, who had already made it to the door. Tightening his scarf.

"Are you still hung up on that glass of water?" He asked after he peeked in the file and found Sherlock's picture printed out, the one of the glass.

He had paused at the glass door, looking out into the street, "It's all wrong. I don't understand why this case is being so difficult." He turned to him with a waving finger, "You don't know the half of what I went through to make sure that photo stayed in the case files."

"No, no I don't," John almost laughed at how serious he was being, "uh, you're stressing a lot about this-" a shout down the office's room stopped him short, he turned to it. Lestrade had poke his head out of the interrogation room, "Oi! You two leavin already?"

Sherlock had done something silently behind his back as an answer, for, the DI gave a confused look, "Well we still have that, uh, Mr. Sander, here. Wana give another go? He refuses to chat with us."

"Who?" John squeaked out before Sherlock had walked up beside him bellowing down the hall, "Keep him in the fire, we don't have much time."

Fire? John watched his flat mate yank his scarf off and fling it over the coat rack, then seeing it now being only a scarf rack he continued back the way they came with practically everyone staring at them from the loud conversation. He shuffled close behind as they doubled back.

"Next room over," Lestrade pointed, "Give me a second before you do anything. Sherlock?" He got his attention as Sherlock wasn't seeming to care. He continued down the hall to the pointed room, Lestrade didn't get his attention at the least. Sherlock just hesitated once before storming inside to say, "Your jointing me this time John."

"Ugh," Lestrade sighed, "Look, keep him away from the Janitor, please. Until I wrap things up." He patted John over to rush him, "Now John go, seriously," he laughed and shoved him harder. John's feet shuffled clumsily before he bounded for the next door. How is it everyone expected him to control Sherlock? Why him? He hardly felt he knew him these days. Half in love with his flat mate was screwing with his head. And, his social life and patients with his sister. He felt like he was on a roller coaster.

He stepped into the room and his eyes landed on Sherlock first, who sat in the iron chair looking poise and intimidating to the other frailer looking man who sat adjacent. The older man gave him a glare as he entered, a dark bruise could be seen on his upper arm as his body turned to the door. His green eyes darting around once John let a tight smile back at him, "Uh, hello."

"I won't be ridiculed by this one again!" He scuffed out, leaning in closer and practically spitting on Sherlock's placid face. Who in turn practically became inert with expressionless judgment.

"I don't believe we've met, I'm Doctor Watson, that's a nasty bruise you have," he held out a firm hand to change the subject. Keeping Lestrade's words in mind about control.

Mr. Sander looked up with his eyes looking slightly less threatening, however he turned thickly sarcastic and harsh on a dime, "Hurts like a bitch too I'd imagine the bastard who put it there deserves penance." The way he turned his attention back to Sherlock spoke as to who this, 'bastard' was. "Oh jeez Sherlock did that?" He breathed reproachfully.

"Sherlock!" The man laughed, "Oh I should have known you was that cocky bastard one floating in he papers," he leaned back violently, "He grabbed me here! Right here, I didn't do nothing to deserve it!"

John still refused to believe Sherlock was just sitting there staring at the man who could at any moment punch him, "Well, I uh. Okay. Look I'm very sorry for that," he tried to lighten the mood, "do you need a water or something? Coffee?" He motioned for the door.

Mr. Sander looked up in surprise, "Gee lookit that. Some decency. Yes, I would love a coffee. They dragged me in here again and I missed my breakfast." He growled.

"Great. _Sherlock_ would love to get that for you." John finally sat down and got himself comfortable, adjusting his coat and unzipping it. His attention on himself until he let out a smile and directed his eyes to a glaring Sherlock beside him. "Go on the man's thirsty."

They kept eye contact for a little longer than necessary, John smirking knowing what he did, knowing what would follow. Sherlock's multi colored eyes looked back with shock, disgust, than acceptance. The moods changed so clearly John was proud of himself for even paying that close of attention.

Sherlock stood then, clearing his throat, "Would you like me to get you something too then, John?" He looked down on him and when he said his name it sounded a bit ugly, John shook his head so Sherlock turned to their suspect, "Take sugar?" He quipped out.

"Oh piss off," he growled before Sherlock gracefully left the room. Once he left there seemed a huge tension went with him, Mr. Sander relaxed and sighed with his elbows on the metal table. His eyes looking down as he talked," _Watson huh?"_

"Yes, John."

"You in the papers too. You hang with that guy?" He motioned to the door.

"He's not so bad." He smiled back, "Mostly." He laughed.

This made the man smile a little, "Look, I'll tell you something here. Come here," he leaned in close to whisper, "Hah, I can say this. So long as your partner don't know. Look, Andrew was on to something. Dr. Watson, something big. I advise you to stay out of it. He wasn't smart like that."

"Andrew Cole?" John asked, leaning in to meet him.

"He was murdered to keep secret on it."

"On what exactly?" John felt the situation shift to danger. Whatever this man was saying sounded real deep, something maybe they weren't expecting. He blinked and scratched his arm, "What did he find out?"

Sander sank back in his chair, his eyes looking to the two sided mirror, "No one behind there huh?"

He followed his gaze, "Uh, I'm unsure. Don't think so." He muttered hoping that this would be enough to tell him what he needed. Apparently not, as the man became tight lipped and didn't say anything else. "Mr. Sander?"

He sighed as about then Lestrade came in with another chair to sit on, "Oh, yes, good afternoon here gentlemen." He gave a bigger smile to John and he got the silent thank you for getting Sherlock under control.

"Oh now you're here again?" Sander grumbled, "Look, I'd like to go home now." His arms crossed, "I've been here all morning."

Lestrade gave John a look, one of those looks where he was proving this man was difficult. So, he nodded back a tad understanding, however wished with all his medical training that he would leave them alone again and maybe Mr. Sander would open up. Whatever he spoke of sounded grave and life threatening. The way he warned John gave him goose bumps and a horrible feeling deep in his gut. Oh it wasn't something he wanted to let go. "Tell him what you told me Mr. Sander."

"Hmm?" Lestrade pushed.

Sander snorted gunk back up his nose, "That Sherlock mate of yours is a real bastard. What a bastard."

"No, not that, the warning."

"Warning?" Lestrade was put at attention as the man spoke again, almost seeming to lightly not remember the previous conversation, "Can't say any warning other than get your flu shot, or else I may pass it to ya," he growled with sarcasm. Snarking a laugh under his breath. John practically hit his palm to his forehead.

So John tried to motion Lestrade out again as if he may only talk in the certain privacy, "Uh, did you run into Sherlock out there? Lestrade?" He hoped his voice was suggestive enough.

Sander cursed at his name from across the room. Tightening his arms across his chest as the DI nodded shortly, "Suppose I did pass him at the coffee dispenser down by my office." He gave another suggestive smile, thanking him for getting Sherlock controlled until he had been present.

"Good," he gritted his teeth, "I forgot to ask for a cup, do me the favor," he raised his eyebrows and when he crossed his arms he pointed to the double mirror, suggesting Lestrade take the other means of observation.

Who, in turn gave a look now of confusion similar to someone getting bad news at a hospital spoke in medical terms. He seemed to get the picture he was drawing, as he stood with another wide forced smile in Mr. Sander's direction. Sander wasn't paying attention to the main man, merely looking at John with weary eyes as if he wished to speak more.

"I'll just get that coffee for you, hang tight." He opened the door to step out and sure enough, Sherlock stepped in. Cardboard cup full of steaming caffeine clutched in his right hand he bypassed Lestrade without a glance, setting the cup down as he spoke to him, "Ah Sherlock, I was just informed of something, I'd like to talk to you out here a sec."

Grey eyes looked at him in question as he had stayed in his position when letting the cup go, his eyebrow raised. "Wife admit to the affair?"

He got a glare now, "No. In fact . . ."he paused, "in fact it was a triple murder down by Hanz's place." There was that smile on his lips.

"Ice cream and a murder, hello." He jerked upright at the mention of Hanz's ice-cream shop, eyes moving to John with delight, "Man the fort, I shall return with a merrier form of entertainment!" He whisked out of the room practically pushing Lestrade to get to the door.

Of course the DI had been lying and Sherlock would find out and not let it go. Probably demand ice-cream as a penance. John had glanced at his face when the door shut behind them and felt horrible for Lestrade's lie and how he were to wiggle out of it without Sherlock's wrath. Or, who knew, Sherlock could pick up on these things quicker than anyone, but when it's too obvious things in his mind look over it and label it stupid. Stupid things don't normally get recognized or even remembered.

"Here you are, Mr. Sander," he scooted his chair closer to the table and crossed his legs while pushing the coffee near him. Maybe he would just spill it all. Tell him everything.

"They certainly are idiotic twits." He laughed, "Oh, oh yes. Mhmm." He took it between his fingers. Fiddling with the paper rim in one hand and his loosely kept nails on the other keyboarding the table. His eyes skimming over John with the same grave look before darting to the two way mirror. "Watson, you and your mate go on adventures all the time yeah?"

"Yes I suppose you could call them adventures."

"Have fun running around solving riddles?" He leaned in again.

This was it, this was what John needed to hear, "I wouldn't call it fun per-say."

"Get out of this adventure. This isn't one you need to know about. He'll get you John." He sent goose bumps his way, "Get out and leave Sherlock behind if you sensible John." His voice thick with warning and foreshadow. Like he knew what would happen, as if his warning were to be taken seriously when he looked like some un-honest bloke. Some piece of trash floated up ashore. No. John felt fear strike him harshly for a brief moment, looking back into this man's eyes. It was indeed a warning, "Who? Dammit, who is going to get me?"

"I think you'll find him relatable Doctor Watson." He jumped to his feet with a rushed mannerism, taking a stride to the door with his coffee in hand, "This was all the talking I'll get in on such a long damn day. I'm done with this department before someone gets ideas I'm _spillin beans_ as Andrew did," he opened the door bellowing out, "take me home! I've said enough as is!"

Now, that had been a very short chaotic interrogation.

Leaving John feeling a little wobbly as he walked out to find a Mr. Sander being hauled out as he set off strings of cuss words. Sherlock spotted in an office chair scribbling on notepads and then Lestrade came from his office in a hurry, only to stop short when laying eyes on John. "Oi, I was coming to join you in the-the uh," his head turned at the sounds of swearing down the hall, "Hey! What is he doing being let go, I have at least another hour with this man!" He stormed down the hall, turning to call out to John, "You better tell me this guy's statements when I get-no, get him in here!" He was cut short when Mr. Sander had walked out past the door. John laughed despite the later remarks thrown at him; Lestrade sure did go to certain lengths to track down suspects.

Sherlock looked over at John as he stood from the chair with his notepad in his grasp, his face was stern and his eyes looked past things in sight, as if they weren't there. He was in deep thought about something. He continued to wave John to move along, scribbling on the paper again as he walked down the hall.

"Sherlock, look that man back there-" he stopped seeing the hand that was waving him to follow now waved for him to stop talking. He shuffled behind him, pointing to the room they just left, glancing at it feeling nervous again. "Look, he was-"

"John that man wasn't in his right mind, give me a moment here of silence before I leave." His back was to him, looking rushed, "No more time to be wasted on Mr. Sander. However," he paused a moment as they came to the door and just as he did Lestrade and two other officers brought the devil they spoke of inside, demanding more time to talk to him. Sherlock gave the DI a strong glare, "Greg here lied about my late Christmas gift."

"You can stop calling me that Sherlock, really." He got as a response, "Needed you out of the room for a sec, John I—"

Sherlock interrupted with a short, "Could have just asked." Before he was out the door with his scarf around his neck.

Lestrade bypassed him and let Mr. Sander be guided back to the interrogation room, "John what did he tell you?"

"Maybe you can ask him, I'm sorry he was just warning me about something I can't say I really don't know. Ask him what I find relatable with him? Ask that." he talked quick and hoped this conversation were to go faster so he could get back to telling Sherlock. Surely his genius friend could figure it out. He grabbed the door and stepped out as Lestrade was nodding with confused determination to get the same information extracted from the guy. Sherlock was well ahead of him, he had to jog a little down the paved sidewalk, "Sherlock he was warning me!"

"I need to go to the hospital John."

"Why?" he came up beside him, "what for?"

He gave a side glance down at him, "To St. Jord, the hospital Andrew Cole worked at, I'll go alone."

"_Really?"_ John stopped walking and grabbed his elbow to get his attention, "Why? Was I just dragged along to one interrogation for nothing?"

"Don't act hurt, it's nothing too personal," he muttered while his eyes lay upon the slight contact they had, "We need space."

John was taken back, letting his elbow go, "We had space, Sherlock! It was a whole three full days of space. What's going on with you?" Sherlock was hailing a cab now and John was getting irritated at his weird behavior. Had this to do with what happened earlier? "What's going on?"

"I could ask you the same," he scrunched his nose, looking down at him briefly before the car pulled up and he ignored all of John's questions and had jumped inside.

Leaving John alone on the curb and he was really doubting he could continue this conversation if he met him at the hospital. Posh but he wanted to. He wanted to demand answers. Sherlock was being weird and now John was guessing it really did have to do with him. What he did before, getting close like that? Leaning in. . . Like that. Complimenting him with that tone, _dammit!_

He headed back to the flat practically steaming with embarrassment and confused anger.

**_/X\\_**

It was around five in the afternoon, an hour or so after he got back from Scotland Yard, he sat down with a warm cup of tea and the newspaper to calm him. He waited patiently for something to come up about the case that maybe Lestrade would text him with, along with the idea Sherlock could come back any moment. His intent was completely innocent, but with his life, nothing seemed to want to be simple.

221B chimed shortly twice, begging John to let the person in. He really didn't want clients in here still and seeing someone without Sherlock's consent felt like cheating on a spouse.

Why did he have to use that reverence?

He dragged a hand down his face before setting his paper down to get the door. Bend it, Mycroft stood elegant as ever at the doorway, a reproached frown upon his lips. He let out a, "Dr. Watson, keeping quiet these past few days hm?" He let himself in. Taking his brown scarf off and hanging it, before taking his gloves off.

"Sherlock isn't here, you know?"

"Of course I know." Mycroft sneered.

John looked around suspiciously, "Right. Well could you come back another day when he is, I'm sure he will-"

"Noooo," he drawled out, interrupting, "_You're _the man I need to see. Have a seat upstairs, have you started the fire?" His cane came with him. John shrugged, "Uh, shouldn't you know?" He half joked back. Mycroft turned to look over his black blazer shoulder, and now John felt very exposed.

Mycroft instantly took John's seat and hold of his untouched tea. John inwardly groaned but shoved his hands in his pockets and swallowed his complaints, "So, uh, what do you need me for?"

"Hmm. My brother came to see me a few days ago. I'm afraid I cannot help you, or him.."

"Help what, what did you talk about?" John leaned on the other chairs arm rest, feeling woozy.

"He discussed something you could consider private, I couldn't care less." His eyes came to the tea as he took a sip, "However it's affecting my work and you know how I _cannot_ have this."

"_Uh_ . . .?"

He drank his tea some more, sighing, "The only reason for my visit is to insist you get over it."

"It?" John's hands became sweaty and clammy and he felt the temperature of the room drop then rise, now his voice squeaked. This couldn't be what he spoke of? Mycroft continued, "You're little crush on Sherlock has to stop. He's been coming to me, to," he paused before drawling out dryly, "He wants me to _fix it_."

"_Fix it?_" John squeaked and sank into the chair feeling completely defeated. Mycroft sipped his tea and shifted in the chair, looking as if to stand, "He wants you fixed. In his eyes you're broken." Then he stood as predicted, "I hope you can understand that you've affected both our lines of work Dr. Watson. You can see this is for everyone's well-being." He then finished the tea in record time and walked to the door.

"Short visit I know, John, let's not let it last as long next time. Ta."

And now Mycroft was gone. Taking his accusations and assumptions with him. John watched him go and cringed as the door shut. _Sherlock knew! Sherlock definitely knew._

Oh, he felt like being sick. All over the floor that threatened to smack him in the face if he wasn't sitting. His heart jumped around in his chest and his palms were so sweaty he feared his pants wouldn't hold it all. John breathed a sigh and rubbed his head, it ached with how much he now had to think about. There was now his sister to deal with and say, told you so, he doesn't care about me. Then there's Sherlock himself who he had to confront somehow about this.

Should he?

He had no idea if he should even bring it up or just act like it didn't happen. None of it did. But, Sherlock would know Mycroft was over. He would ask him to explain why. He would know eventually.

He grumbled to himself for even thinking of listening to his sister. For even considering this.

But, didn't he want it? Weren't these feelings real? The stirrings turned into feelings, ugh, yes suppose they did. Suppose he did feel it. The way Sherlock looked at him in the interrogation room, when he told him to get the janitor a drink. Their eye contact had created some strange feelings in him; he had really felt the urge to find out what they meant.

Now he would never know.

_Oh dear. Oh dear._

John was thinking in circles and it got worse when he heard another bell ring from the door downstairs. If this was somehow Sherlock he didn't think he could be in the same room. He needed a break from him. Oh he needed a long break.

John squeezed his eyes before standing and taking a long breath. His legs carrying him down back to the door. He really really hoped it wasn't Mycroft either, this was horrible.

A complete nightmare he feared would ruin their friendship.

He opened the door and kept his face as stern and unreadable as possible. A small wonder as to why Mrs. Hudson hadn't been around yet when he returned earlier, before he saw who was behind the door.

"Oh, uh, hello-What the-Ah!"

* * *

Wow, what a long chapter huh? -Well it seemed to be for me. haha

Wonder what's happened to John...?

-Thankyou to Tusk of Thyme :] Really enjoyed reading your comment! Thanks!

Love you guys, hope to hear more from you~ Don't forget to comment and all that jazz.

Oh and I'm sorry for mistakes here and there in this chapter, I'm afraid I write on my Ipad and when it uploads things get screwy. I'll go through and try to change these things, but i can't until some time tomorrow. -New chapter coming soon, fingers crossed!


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